


Like Butter

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 14:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5970586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson isn't feeling too good. Holmes steps up to scratch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Butter

**Author's Note:**

> Written in an enormous hurry for the 24-hour challenge at LJ'c come_at_once comm, so I apologise for any craziness.

Watson feels bad. Holmes steps up to scratch.

Written in an enormous hurry for the 24-hour challenge at LJ'c come_at_once comm, so I apologise for any craziness.

 

I sank down onto the sofa by the fire, and could not suppress a long sigh of relief. My head ached from the fumes of Bermondsey's tanneries, and my feet ached from following Holmes across south London all afternoon. I was still a young man, and ought to feel it, but I was worn out, used up, like butter scraped over too much bread. Afghanistan had sapped my youth and left me withered and dried.

I watched Holmes hang up his overcoat next to mine, and wondered if I'd ever regain the energy that he was overflowing with. In the four months we'd been living together, my health had gone through peaks and vales, and really I was in better condition than any war veteran had a right to be. Moreover, I'd just spent the day helping Holmes remove a gang of violent criminals from the streets of London, and what more could I ask for.

After the successful conclusion of a case, Holmes was generally in the mood for fine wine, or beautiful music, but tonight he had suggested we return directly home, and I'd been happy to acquiesce. Now, however, I wondered if he regretted not going out. He seemed to be in a state of suppressed excitement, darting around the room, picking up a book here and putting it down there, checking his experiments, twitching the curtains more tightly closed.

His mood was infectious, and I could feel my nerves start to jangle unpleasantly. I wished he would settle down, or go away. Perhaps I should try to pluck up the energy to get up and climb the stairs to my attic bedroom.

Failing that, I let my eyes fall close, and tried to ignore him. He buzzed around the room for a while longer, until finally something burst out of him.

"You should sleep in my bed, Watson."

My eyes flew open, and I sat up straight to stare at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look at you. You are still convalescent, or almost so, and I've imposed upon you dreadfully today. I believe you must have spent over three hours standing in the cold outside that factory. I would be a poor friend indeed if I let you slip off to that freezing cold attic."

"I don't mind it," I said, because I didn't. When we'd moved in here, it had seemed natural that Holmes, with his enormous collection of boxes and portmanteaus, should take the larger downstairs bedroom, and that I should occupy the attic with my single suitcase.

Holmes waved this away.

"In my defence," he said, "I didn't know you from Adam when we moved here, and I didn't really give much thought to what you might want, or need."

He was standing quite close to me now, looking at me, concern clearly visible in his eyes, and perhaps something else.

I thought of the little dance we'd been engaged in over the past four months, subtly, deniably, never openly acknowledging it.

"If I am in your bed, where will you be?" I said quietly, meeting his gaze.

I knew at once I'd hit home. He hesitated for a moment, and then tilted his head to one side, his whole face asking a question. I nodded.

He swallowed, looking almost nervous for a moment, and then hid it in heartiness.

"Capital!" he exclaimed, bringing his hands together. "Well, off you go, then. It's late already. I'll be along shortly."

There seemed to be nothing else to do but to follow his advice. 

From his bedroom, I could hear Holmes moving about, locking the sitting room door and banking the fire for the night. Then I heard his footsteps approach, and he slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at me, his face softened by the gaslight, his gaze intent, his eyes shadowed.

Then he stepped closer, and said, "Sit down."

I had removed my boots and my jacket, but nothing else. Holmes knelt on the bed beside me, and reached for my cravat. He worked it loose with swift, sure fingers, his gaze on me all the while. 

My breath was coming faster now, quick and shallow in my chest. I could feel the whisper of Holmes' own breath, caressing my cheek. He got my shirt off too, and then laid a hand on my chest and pushed gently so that I was flat on my back. I felt his hands at my crotch, clever fingers working at the buttons of my trousers, and almost leapt out of my skin. 

"Careful," he breathed, and I could hear the smile in his voice as he touched me again, pressing harder now, his fingers warm through the thin cotton of my undergarments.

Then he moved away for a moment, to strip off his own clothes, and soon we were lying on the bed, facing each other, in only our undershirts.

Holmes reached out to touch my cheek, and I couldn't help noticing that his fingers, always so sure and steady, betrayed a tiny tremor. I turned my head to kiss his hand, and he let out a tiny huff of breath.

When I tried to reach for him in turn, though, he pushed me back, shaking his head.

"Lie still," he said. "I haven't forgotten I dragged you across half the city today. The least I can do is exert myself a little now."

His hands were strong and gentle, softly caressing and soothing, running over my chest, my shoulders, my back. I felt the tension of the day melt from my muscles, to be replaced by another, more pleasant tension, every nerve in my body worked up to a pitch of expectancy.

My eyes had fallen closed, but I opened them when I felt the mattress shift, and saw Holmes rise up to kneel between my legs. His hands slid up my thighs, fingernails scraping over my skin, and I couldn't help let my hips jerk upward, instinctively reaching for his touch.

"Good Lord, man. Lie still, will you?" he scolded.

And then his warm, wet mouth swallowed my cock.

**Author's Note:**

> Snarryfool's prompt was "like butter".
> 
> I didn't realise that "scraped thin like butter" quote was from Tolkien until I'd started writing. I always thought it was just a common expression. Hope I didn't throw anyone out of one fictional verse and into another!


End file.
